I will be a poor man in the morning.
Let the sun lay feathers on my face
on my scarred hands, love me.
My eyes are open, tempting blindness.
It rains hard and harsh on the garden.
Hope will fly away on one broken wing.
Soon I will be hungry enough to forget shame.
It will be dark and I will beg for coins.
What words will I use to ask for money?
I am a veteran down on my luck?
Can you spare bus fare, I am stranded?
I am hungry I am thirsty I am cold.
How will I know who to ask who to let pass?
I will learn to disappear, be alert in sleep.
My life is cherished more than ever; why now?
Is this the secret to redemption at the end?
Björn Rudberg (brudberg) said:
So much concerns in a text like this Ron..